


the bells we hear

by strawberriez8800



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon, Spans the length of the war in snapshots, Tenderness, Vignettes, Violence, World War 1, but not too graphic, lots of feelings, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25373113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriez8800/pseuds/strawberriez8800
Summary: Alfie takes the cigarette out of Tommy’s fingers. “Do not pollute my air with your bullshit,” he says, but helps himself to a puff regardless and blows the smoke right back at Tommy. Alfie puts out the cigarette on his tongue, lets it fall to the ground.Tommy watches him the entire time; he’s got a fucking feral for a captain, apparently.(He doesn't mind.)
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 45
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do love some Alfie/Tommy in WW1. Can be read loosely as a sequel to [Once a Companion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23963818/).

_24 hours before the Battle of the Somme  
Small Heath Rifles, 5th Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment_

The air is humid and still—much in contradiction to the restless stirring of the men. They’re supposed to sleep, get as much rest as they can now because who the fuck knows when their next chance would be, with what’s to come.

No one sleeps, though. Not today.

Sweat collects at the base of Tommy’s neck; he feels it under the collar of his uniform, mixed with days worth of grime.

Three days since the last bath. Might've been his final one. For fuck’s sake.

Less than twenty-four hours now before the next coin toss. Funny how time slips through his fingers like water when he’s not looking.

(Who’s looking, these days?)

Arthur and John have fucked off somewhere, probably to Scott’s for a last game of poker before evening descends. Tommy declined when they asked him to join. No time for card games, not now. A shame it would be to piss away what remaining hours left on fucking poker of all things.

Not that smoking in his dugout with a tepid cup of tea is any better. Marginally, perhaps.

He needs to make this time count. Must.

So Tommy sets out for Alfie.

(And Tommy doesn’t know why Captain Solomons is the one he longs to see when he wants to make his time _count_. Bloody senseless is what is. Can’t bring himself to care regardless. No one does anymore.)

Tommy finds Alfie in the company dugout, finishing the last of his paperwork. Tommy’s eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness from the late-afternoon light outside.

It’s just them here, and Alfie looks up from his desk at Tommy’s arrival. The lamp casts a soft glow on his face, partially hidden in the shadows. Tommy wonders how the fuck Alfie’s been reading all these papers. It’s so fucking dark in here.

Tommy’s about to say something, but he stops short when he sees a shadow scurry in the dark near Alfie’s desk. A rat. Before Tommy can react, Alfie stabs the rat with his bayonet. It screams, and Alfie drives it further until the scream stops a second later. He pulls out the blade and there’s a wet, squelching noise that comes with the motion. In the half-dark, Tommy doesn’t see the red of the blood, only what little light that bounces off of it in glistening black. Alfie wipes off the blood against the dirt.

“Good afternoon,” Tommy says.

Alfie lets out a curt, little laugh at the dryness. “Yeah, sure.”

“Lots of papers there.” Tommy gestures to the pile on Alfie’s desk with his unlit cigarette.

“You know what’s an idea, Tommy. I should stop right here and leave these to rot, shouldn’t I? Major Thompson can get fucked, yeah, if he’s anything to say about it.”

“Won’t have to worry about him, or any more papers after tomorrow.”

“We operate on the principle of optimism here, don’t we.” Alfie rises from his chair and walks over to Tommy. “We’ll live to see the end of this fucking mess, mate.”

The conviction in Alfie’s voice rings hollow; Tommy appreciates the sentiment, nonetheless. He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke on Alfie, revels in the way Alfie’s mouth twist in annoyance.

Alfie takes the cigarette out of Tommy’s fingers. “Do not pollute my air with your bullshit,” he says, but helps himself to a puff regardless and blows the smoke right back at Tommy. Alfie puts out the cigarette on his tongue, lets it fall to the ground.

Tommy watches him the entire time; he’s got a fucking feral for a captain, apparently.

(He doesn’t mind.)

Walking back to his desk, Alfie asks, “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Shrugging, Tommy lights a fresh cigarette and takes Alfie’s glare in stride. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Alfie says nothing to that, simply sits on his chair and runs a hand through his hair. Tommy’s gaze follows the movement of those fingers, thinks back to a time—not too long ago, technically, but feels like another life now, like everything else—when those very fingers brushed against his own skin.

“The others will be back for tea,” Alfie is saying. “You should go, Tom.” He sighs, like he hates the prospect of it as much as Tommy does.

It hasn’t even been ten minutes. And Tommy hasn’t so much as seen Alfie for a week before this. Yet—yet—

“I know,” is all Tommy says. “See you around, Alfie.”

(Or not. Who can say?)

He turns around to leave, but Alfie’s footsteps stop him. Alfie’s beside him now, and Alfie presses their foreheads together. For a few short seconds they lean against each other, breathe the same air, touch the same skin.

“Fuck this,” Alfie says, voice quiet. “Fuck it all to hell, yeah?”

Tommy lets his eyes flutter shut. “Already there, Captain.”

“Shut up,” Alfie says lightly and pulls away with a smirk. “Now fuck off, won’t you.”

Tommy leaves, but not without a last glance over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be adding artworks at the end of certain chapters <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to turn this story to a multi-chapter one that spans the length of the war in snapshots. There's an end-game here, I promise. I have it etched in my mind—just need to get there.

One-third, gone.

No, not gone— _killed._ Bodies are still here, there, everywhere. They’re not gone at all.

No man’s land, they say; far from the truth it is, with how many men are here. Dead, alive, or halfway between. Tommy sees them when he retrieves the bodies with what’s left of his unit and the medical corps. Sees them, but doesn’t look. Can’t. He lets his eyes glaze over.

(He searches for familiar faces, though. Hopes to fucking god he doesn’t find them. Not that god hears his prayers.)

By statistical likelihood, one of them should be dead: Tommy, Arthur or John. One-third, after all.

But Arthur and John are alive, thank _fuck_. Hanging on, barely, but alive. Counts for something, that. Counts for everything.

Tommy’s luck has beaten the statistics.

There’s someone else, though.

Alfie. Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Alfie.

He must be dead, then. Tommy’s luck can only go so far before it runs dry; he’s already squeezed every last drop of it and more—

But Tommy doesn’t find Alfie at the end of the first day on the Somme. Not on the field. He hopes it’s a good thing. God, he hopes so.

* * *

When Tommy visits John and Arthur at the casualty stations behind the lines, he makes sure that they’re alive and tended to—as much as they can be, anyway, with the mayhem around them—before Tommy sets off, wandering from tent to tent, wounded to wounded as he looks for Alfie.

(Feels like he’s always looking for Alfie these days; he doesn’t want to deny himself something this—this fucking simple. They can have _this_ if nothing else, can’t they?)

He asks who he can for Captain Solomons, if anyone’s seen him. Nurses and doctors alike brush him off, mostly. Too busy dealing with the dying to care about the dead—no, Alfie can’t be dead, no, fucking _no._

“Captain Solomons?” a medic says, finally, brows furrowed. “Yeah, I’ve seen him.”

Tommy’s stomach drops; if Alfie’s here, it means he’s hurt in some way or another—

No, this is a good thing. He’s alive. Fucking _alive._

The medic checks the clipboard in his hand, flips through the list of names and stations. It’s been a good thirty seconds and he's still bloody _looking_.

“Come on.” Tommy’s patience spills all over. “Where the fuck is he? Where?”

Eventually, he finds Alfie’s name and verbally directs Tommy to him. Three tents down, fourth row, probably being operated on. His knee, the medic says. Shrapnel. Fuck.

Tommy mutters a quick thanks and sets off. He ignores the moans and cries for help that haunt the stations as he makes his way to Captain Solomons. Doesn’t look at anyone. A soldier grabs Tommy’s arm when he passes by, wordless, brown eyes begging and skin half-seared, but Tommy only gives him a firm squeeze on his hand before he continues onwards.

Finally— _finally_ —Tommy finds Alfie on one of the beds, a doctor hovering over him with bloodied, metal instruments in his hands. A nurse rushes towards him and hands him a cloth. Tommy halts, doesn’t want to step any closer because, fuck, he doesn’t want to see the extent of it—

A medic shoves past Tommy on the way to a patient. “Sir, could you please move aside—”

“Shut up, shut the fuck up,” Tommy says before he can think. He wants to take back the words. He doesn’t. His eyes meet the medic’s and a silent understanding passes between the glance before they go about their business; no room for hard feelings here.

Tommy lingers in a distant corner and watches Alfie’s operation. He’ll survive; this Tommy knows. Knows with conviction so stark that his hands don’t shake when he lights a cigarette.

Alfie will survive.

(For now, anyway; shrapnel wound in the knee, while not lethal in the moment, may eventually be so, depending on one’s luck and how generous the tendency of infection feels on that particular day.)

Tommy watches, and he waits.

The soldier on the bed closest to Tommy dies before any doctor can operate on him.

But Alfie lives. He lives.

* * *

In the next few hours, Tommy has gone to check on John and Arthur and returned. The nurses have asked Tommy to leave twice by now, but Alfie's still not awake and Tommy is not leaving until he is.

Leaving would be the wise thing to do; Day Two lays imminent and fuck knows Tommy needs all the rest he can get.

(Yet there’s nowhere else he can possibly rest but here.)

Alfie doesn’t come to until it’s well past dusk.

“Good evening,” Tommy says, and the weight in his chest ebbs with his words.

Alfie’s still high on morphine, and the mess that is his knee has already bled through the recently-changed bandages, so Tommy hopes Alfie doesn’t come down from it anytime soon because it’s fucking horrific.

Alfie talks slurred gibberish at Tommy. Something about Cyril and his favourite food. A puppy back home at Camden Town, from what Tommy can gather. The dog likes apples apparently. Apples, of all fucking things. Or maybe Alfie’s just high.

“I’ll get him apples,” Tommy says, smirking a little.

“You better fucking do. Peanut butter,” Alfie mumbles. He goes on to talk about Timbuktu. Tommy’s not sure why, but he listens regardless.

Ten minutes later, the nurse asks Tommy to leave again.

This time, he does.


	3. Chapter 3

The rain pours. It washes the dirt from Tommy's face, a cleanse that is but skin-deep yet far better than nothing.

He crouches low, meeting the weary eyes of his men around him, etches the faces into his mind.

Today, they don’t attack—that’s the plan anyway; if all goes well, there won’t be a need to.

For the next few hours they wait for the signal. Prepared for the worst, hoping for a little less; it’s all they can do. Gunfire and artillery and haphazard screams make a crude backdrop, but it’s a quiet afternoon for the Small Heath Rifles.

(Tommy tries not to listen. He does, in the end.)

The signal doesn’t come. As the lines of their shoulders begin to loosen, a shell drops yards from their station. The ground shakes. Distantly, Tommy is grateful for the rain, because in the rain the explosion doesn’t kick up dust that would invade his lungs until it hurts to breathe.

His ears ring. A few beats later he hears a groan near him—Jim’s voice. It seems Jimmy’s lost himself in the blast; he stumbles blindly, forgets everything he’s known. Tommy wants to smack him across the face to pull him back.

The sniper’s bullet whizzes inches by Jim’s shoulder.

“Get _down_ ,” Tommy tells him. He can’t hear himself, so no one else can either. Tommy reaches to yank Jim down by the arm, but this time the sniper takes Jim through an eye. His body crumples to the ground, legs slipping in the mud.

Tommy remains still, squeezes his head between his arms. Deep breaths—one, two, three, four. He counts and counts and counts.

He thinks about John and Arthur—tucked away behind the lines as they nurse their wounds. Alfie, too. Tommy holds on to these thoughts until his breathing slows and the world swims back into his vision.

* * *

Tommy lives to see what’s left of the day along with the rest of his unit.

(It’s stolen time, he knows, yet it’s time nonetheless and he intends to make use of it.)

When the evening settles, he visits the casualty stations again. Arthur and John are recovering, due to return to duty in a week. “Shelbys don’t die that easily,” Arthur says when Tommy stops by. “Boche cunts. I’ll fucking kill ‘em all, Tommy.” The blood-soaked bandage around Arthur’s head doesn’t quell the fire in him.

Tommy puts a firm hand on his shoulder. “In time, brother.”

When he goes to see Alfie, the bed Alfie used is now taken by another soldier.

A medic tells Tommy that Captain Solomons has been transferred to No. 3 General Hospital, along with the rest of the wounded who can no longer fight. Not for a while, at least. All the way to fucking Rouen, seventy miles away. _Fuck._

Tommy lights a cigarette to keep himself together.

At least Alfie will be safe there; Tommy takes what solace he can from this. Takes it, holds it tight to his chest and never wants to fucking let go.

He doesn’t see Alfie for the next fourteen days.

* * *

Tommy is seventy feet beneath the surface and he sees nothing.

It’s all right.

It’s going to be all right.

He hears the German, doesn’t see him of course. Down in the tunnels they fight entire fucking battles without so much as a glimpse of each other.

Four feet high, three feet wide; there’s not much space to move, so when Tommy hears the soldier swing for him, he grabs into the dark. Doesn’t dodge, because that would be an exercise in futility.

The soldier’s knife slices open Tommy’s palm and Tommy refuses—absolutely fucking _refuses_ to die before he can see Alfie again. The metal slips from his blood, and Tommy drives the blade into his opponent’s throat. Shoves it in deep until the hilt meets resistance.

Before long, Tommy’s hands begin to drip with his own blood and his enemy’s.

The soldier drowns. Tommy keeps the knife for himself.

* * *

When Tommy is rotated out of the front line, he calls in a favour with Lieutenant Wilson to get him a train ride to Rouen. One afternoon; it’s not nearly enough, but he takes what he can get.

By the time Tommy reaches the hospital, half of the afternoon has gone.

(He hates it, hates how little time he has now, like it’s too fucking much to ask for his hours, minutes, seconds.)

Alfie is reviewing a stack of documents on his bed when Tommy arrives. Tactical instructions issued from above, based on what Tommy can gather. Captain Solomons can’t get away from his paperwork even all the way out here, it seems.

“Your leg,” is the first thing Tommy says to Alfie. “Still have it I see.”

“Fuck lot of good it’s doing right now,” Alfie says as he puts away the papers. His eyes settle on Tommy’s bandaged hand. “Souvenir?”

Tommy pulls out the knife from his pocket. “Something like that.” He sets it beside Alfie’s bed. “Keep it.”

“My, aren’t you a fucking romantic.”

Tommy lets slip a lazy smirk. “You’ll need it more than me with that knee.”

“Go on, fuck off.”

Tommy grabs a nearby chair and sits beside Alfie’s bed. “How long before you’re back?”

Shrugging, Alfie says, “One week, two at most. Depends on how generous this bloody thing is feeling.” He glares at his covered leg, then looks away, quiet. “I don’t want to go back, Tom. I fucking don’t.”

“I know.” Tommy reaches for Alfie’s hand, takes it in his gently. “Sorry.”

Stroking the bandage on Tommy’s palm with his thumb, Alfie says, “Must’ve hurt like a fucking bitch.”

“It saved me.”

Their eyes meet, and Alfie’s gaze softens a little. “Good.”

The patient next to Alfie’s bed cries out loud. His eyes are wrapped in white. From the gas, probably. A passing nurse tends to him, murmurs soothing words to a man who can no longer find comfort in what sounds he hears because hearing is the only thing he has.

(Selfishly, Tommy is glad—fucking _glad_ it isn’t Alfie, or himself.)

“Fucking awful, that,” Alfie says quietly.

Tommy’s hand tightens around Alfie’s, then he notices the unopened letters tucked under Alfie’s pillow. Tentative, Tommy reaches for them, half-expects Alfie to stop him. Alfie doesn’t.

“Didn’t want to read them,” Alfie tells him.

Tommy doesn’t ask why. He knows why.

(Because sometimes these letters might be the last ones they ever receive from home and they want to—want to _save_ them for a darker day. Nonsensical, of course; but what isn’t, in this life?)

There are three letters. Two from Alfie’s mother, one from a family friend who signed his name by Ishmael.

In the waning afternoon light, Tommy reads Alfie’s letters to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. Writing this is so draining but fun at the same time. It's conflicting..!


	4. Chapter 4

In the support line, Tommy grasps for respite with both hands.

Being three hundred yards behind the front, if he tries hard enough, he can almost—almost forget. Not quite, though; not with all the noise, the smell of rot in the air, the incessant flies that swarm around the living and the dead.

Flies. There are so fucking many of them. Not as bad as the front, but enough to drive Tommy’s patience to the brink all the same.

Tommy bats them away, only for them to return a second later. He takes a breath, closing his eyes, and imagines the satisfaction of putting a bullet through every one of them.

He returns to his task of refilling the sandbags. Shovel, fill. Shovel, fill.

The sun bears down from its highest point in the sky. Sweat beads on Tommy’s forehead and slips into his eyes, stinging them.

Despite the heat, he finds comfort in the monotony of manual labour. Clings to it, focuses on nothing except for the task before him until it’s the only thing he knows.

* * *

When afternoon tea comes around, Captain Solomons gives out their letters. It’s the first time Tommy has seen him since the hospital, and all at once Tommy is both relieved that Alfie has returned and sickened by such a sentiment, because—because he wouldn’t wish any of this upon his worst enemy—

(Yet if it means Tommy sees Alfie once more, even in this hell— _especially_ in this hell...)

Tommy doesn’t miss Alfie’s slight limp from his damaged knee. The sight makes his chest tighten a little, and he tries not to think about it.

Alfie is in front of him now, holding out two sealed envelopes. “For you, Sergeant Major.” His lips curl into a half-smirk, half-smile and Tommy’s day already feels a little lighter.

(Sometimes Tommy scares himself with how attached he’s become, but isn’t it only logical for one to cling to a beacon of hope? And Alfie—well, Alfie is the fucking _sun_.)

As Tommy takes the letters from Alfie, their fingers brush, and Tommy wrestles the urge to grab Alfie’s hand entirely because it’s been too goddamned long.

He doesn’t.

“Thanks,” Tommy says, and Alfie nods firmly in response.

Tommy receives letters from Ada and Polly. Things are going fine at home. Difficult sometimes, with the Peakys and their businesses, but what’s any of that compared to France? Polly says, anyway.

Ada is volunteering for the Red Cross. Has been for a few months now. She’s liking it; feels productive, Ada says, and she wants to contribute to the war effort.

Tommy, John and Arthur also receive some clean socks, cigarettes and biscuits.

* * *

Tommy wakes up from Arthur’s nightmares.

(It’s a rare thing, for both of them to be sleeping at the same time out here. Tommy has almost forgotten how it’s like.)

Shaking Arthur gently on the shoulder, Tommy says, “Arthur, it’s all right. Arthur.”

Arthur continues to thrash and whimper in his sleep, and Tommy is about to nudge him again when Arthur snaps awake, eyes wide, chest heaving. “What—what the _fuck_ —” his gaze hones in on Tommy’s “—oh god, Tommy, where are we—”

Tommy holds him close, feels Arthur shake beneath his hands as he sobs into Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m such a—such a fuck-up,” Arthur is saying. “I’m supposed to take care of you. You and John, damn it. Not—not like this. I’m sorry.”

Letting his eyes fall shut, Tommy only says, “Enough of that, brother. We’re family, and that is all that matters, yeah? We’re here for each other.”

* * *

These moments are difficult to come by, so when they do, there’s nothing Tommy wants more than to freeze time in this frame and live in it for as long as he is allowed.

It’s quiet tonight in the reserve line. Back here, and deep in the officer dugouts in one of the three rooms, there’s no sound around them except for breaths both soft and harsh, branded by thoughts too loud to voice yet too quiet to only _think_ —

Alfie brings their lips together roughly, like there’s not enough time for anything less. “Fucking hell, I missed you,” he whispers between kisses, hands buried in Tommy’s hair as he holds him against the dirt wall.

“Been a while, yes,” Tommy says, breathless, and returns his kisses with matching ardour. No longer cares for any coyness or false nonchalance because they’re too far past the goddamned precipice for anymore pretense.

(In the back of his mind, Tommy wonders when exactly they crossed the threshold from casually fucking in the midst of a damned war to—to _this._ But what the hell does it matter?)

Alfie’s mouth is hot on Tommy’s throat—his skin must taste fucking disgusting right about now, but Alfie doesn’t seem to care as he worships Tommy in his entirety. Tommy takes Alfie’s face in his hands, looks into those blue-grey eyes glazed with so much want it _hurts._

He kisses Alfie again, commits the feeling of his lips to his memory. Locks it in forever—

The ground shakes beneath them. Above, too. Shells.

Tommy freezes.

Alfie pulls away from him. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —”

He continues to talk, probably giving instructions, but his voice is drowned by the artillery falling above ground.

Tommy grabs Alfie’s hand, ready to run for it, to get out of here because getting buried is about the worst way he can think of to go.

Alfie holds him down. “No, we stay here. It’s fucking purgatory out there but we’ll be all right here. It’s stood for two years and it will stand for another night, Tom.”

He is right, of course. Tommy knows this, but it doesn’t mean his body fucking _understands_ because before he can stop himself he’s breathing too fast, too shallow and he can’t hear a thing except for his own heartbeat. His vision blurs.

Alfie slaps him on the face. It must be a hard hit, because he jerks to the side a little, but the sting is a distant pinprick in his mind. “Tom, get your shit together,” Alfie says, grabbing Tommy by the chin. “Do not fucking lose it right now. Stay with me.”

Distantly, Tommy notices an officer scramble into the dugout and curl into a corner. Alfie ignores him completely and keeps his gaze on Tommy. “Hey, you there?”

Tommy blinks. “Yes,” he finds himself mumbling.

The shells are still falling above them, sporadic. Just when he thinks it’s over, another one falls.

They wait it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is so hard to write, so the chapters are taking a bit longer. Nonetheless, I hope you liked this one! :)
> 
> [Fanart for this chapter :)](https://i.imgur.com/dgzRdlj.jpg/)


	5. Chapter 5

When the Somme Offensive ends, Tommy does not look back over his shoulder.

He doesn’t look back, but he remembers. Oh, he remembers many things—the waste, most of all.

It’s a battle without a victory on either side; it would be a sordid joke, except he’s too tired to laugh.

So when Tommy is granted leave that gives him more time than he’s ever had in the past six months, he takes it, fucking _takes_ it without hesitation. It’s not enough time to go home, but more than sufficient for a trip to Chavignon.

(It’s a miracle this town is still standing with all that has come and gone. Tommy suspects it may not be for much longer; all the more reason for a sojourn.)

The plan is to meet Alfie at the only pub in this commune, though it’s an optimistic plan, rather, because chances are slim to none that they can coordinate their leaves at all, let alone any time long enough for a rendezvous.

Alfie makes it, against all odds; Tommy sees him in the pub, tucked into the corner of the bar like the last thing he wants is for anyone to notice him. Anyone but Tommy, of course, and this fact becomes all too palpable when Alfie sits up straighter upon noticing him.

Tommy approaches him, doesn’t bother to hide the smile that plays at his lips. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain Solomons, that a proper fuck would go nicely with this sorry excuse of a drink,” he says, echoing Alfie’s first words to him from months past that feel like years.

“Seeing you in one piece goes nicely with this drink, yeah it does,” Alfie says. “You _are,_ I hope. In one piece that is.”

“In ways that matter,” Tommy says, shrugging, and orders himself a beer.

“Good enough I say. Any more than that is like asking to win the fucking lottery, ain’t it.”

Tommy holds up his glass. “Cheers to that.” He takes a swig of the beer. “How’s your knee?”

“As far as being crippled goes, I really can’t fucking complain.” Alfie’s sardonic smile recedes to a softer one, made all the more tender by the muted light in the precinct. The urge to caress his lips strikes Tommy apropos of nothing.

Later, he tells himself.

Later, when they walk out of the bar and hide in a darkened alley like thieves, because stolen moments are all they have yet more than they dare ask for.

Later, when Tommy holds Alfie against him amidst the light of dusk and Alfie tells him, “They’re transferring me to Étaples, Tommy.”

His world stills. “What?” He steps away from Alfie for a better look at his face. “What the fuck?”

Étaples. The other side of France.

“I don’t bloody know, all right?” Alfie runs a hand through his hair and mutters a curse under his breath. “Orders from above. For fuck’s sake, Tom, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Tommy looks away and lights a cigarette. He takes a long, shaky drag. “It’s a fucking base camp, Alfie. For _training_. What the hell do they want you there for, eh?” A revelation occurs to Tommy, and his throat seizes. “Wait, wait. Did you _ask_ to be moved? Did you, Alfie?”

Alfie doesn’t respond, and that is enough of an answer.

There are no grounds for Tommy to blame him, however much he wants to.

(God, he wants to. Wants to _hate_ him. But he could never.)

After all, everyone wants out of here. Not everyone gets what they want, of course.

* * *

Four months crawl past since Alfie’s transfer to Étaples, since they parted on terms Tommy wishes so badly to undo.

Because fuck knows when—if—he would ever get the chance to make amends.

One afternoon, during an extended stretch of respite that has long turned into boredom, Tommy’s fingers itch for the pen.

So, he writes a letter intended for Alfie, then another, and another. All in one sitting until his hand aches and his mind numbs from too much he never got to say.

Tommy doesn’t send these letters.

* * *

The days go by until Tommy no longer keeps track of them; they pass slowly, like a fog that doesn’t quite settle, but there are moments that shock him back into the present like a cold splash of water to the face.

When a piece of shrapnel skirts inches past his eye. When a comrade becomes lost amidst exploding shells. When he sees the light leave the eyes of a German soldier whose only mistake was to serve his country without question.

These are the moments that make Tommy feel alive—not for the better, but alive all the same.

These are the moments that make him feel alive, until he wishes he weren’t.

* * *

When they tell him the war is over, Tommy wonders if he has finally gone off the brink.

But it’s happening, they tell him. It _has_ happened, they tell him.

Tommy waits for the relief, waits for the happiness because he’s made it through, along with John and Arthur, for god’s sake. What more can a man ask for?

The relief comes before long. The happiness, too. But Tommy isn’t happy because the war is over; he’s happy because he has his life back.

Two weeks later, Tommy realises his life had been the trenches all along.

*

*

*

Three years after the war, if Tommy pretends hard enough he manages to appear sane to people who don’t look too closely.

He tries not to look too closely at himself, too; in fact he has become so adept at such a thing, he’s all but shoved it to a distant corner of his mind as he builds his empire from the ground up.

People are noticing from Birmingham to London, and one day Tommy receives a telegram.

 _LET US BREAK BREAD TOGETHER,_ the print reads.

It’s unsigned, Tommy sees. But it’s from Camden Town.

Camden Town.

His breath stops short in his throat.

What are the chances?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was _this_ close to deleting the story because of how much the thought of even writing more of it was stressing me out. I had such big plans for this story. What I did not plan for was how mentally draining writing this was. So, rather than deleting the story, I decided to cut the fluff and write only the essence just to save my sanity (because I really did not want to leave this story hanging or delete it), and I somehow managed to finish it. I hope you still found it enjoyable regardless <3
> 
> Regarding the ending, I always wondered how Tommy and Alfie's reunion would be like, if they ever met pre-canon. And what's a better pre-canon than the war?

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [@strawberriez8800x](https://strawberriez8800x.tumblr.com/)


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